


strike us like matches

by curtwen



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Angst, Autistic Dennis Reynolds, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad with a Happy Ending, kind of?, meltdowns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29347239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtwen/pseuds/curtwen
Summary: It was just as crazy a day as any other at Paddy’s, but for some reason, everyone and everything felt like a trigger to his brain; as if the bar’s patrons all held guns pointed right to Dennis’ face, all loaded and cocked and ready to blast him into bits - and that day, they'd done it.Dennis has a meltdown at the bar. Mac is there to help.
Relationships: Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	strike us like matches

**Author's Note:**

> noticed a severe lack of autistic dennis fics on here, so i took matters into my own autistic hands and made one myself:]
> 
> this whole thing is kind of just a big projection, so a lot is drawn from my own experience. sensory overload, meltdowns, and some internalized ableism are all prominent in this, so warning for that!
> 
> hope u enjoy<3

It was a bad day, Dennis had decided. A very bad, bad, awful day.

He couldn't even tell what had gone wrong, not concretely. It was just as crazy a day as any other at Paddy’s, but for some reason, everyone and everything felt like a trigger to his brain; as if the bar’s patrons all held guns pointed right to Dennis’ face, all loaded and cocked and ready to blast him into bits - and that day, they'd done it.

He'd figured something was off when the drive to work with Mac in the Range Rover was more distressing than it was a comfort, like it usually would be. Every tiny, little bump the car hit, every sudden, lurching stop he had to make, every blaringly loud honk all worked to overload his senses and stress him out until he was grating his teeth together so obviously that Mac had to gently pat his jaw and remind him to unclench it.

Not that he'd taken the help gracefully, of course. Dennis had snapped out an “I didn't ask you” and swatted him off, even though he did do as told and let his jaw relax. He could tell Mac was pulling the sad puppy eyes he did sometimes whenever Dennis had hurt his feelings, but he couldn't bring himself to even feel guilty.

That didn't matter anymore, though. After all, it was only one domino piece in the cascading maze that was his sanity that day.

The rest fell in succession at Paddy’s. To his dismay, leaving the accursed car and escaping into the bar hadn't provided him with any ounce of relief. In fact, it did the exact opposite. An awful, painful car ride he could handle. A day at work where the noises and lights and sensations were constant and unending? That was a different story.

Since the car, he’d felt like a frayed rubber band, pulled taut and ready to snap. He'd managed it for a little while, kept the band from breaking. Dennis would hear a sudden noise, or one that would just grate his ears until he shook, and he’d manage it. Considering his job he mostly had to grin and bear it, but there were times he was able to press his palms harsh against his ears, close his eyes, tap his foot incessantly and rock his body, and that would help. It was only a brief reprieve, but anything was better than nothing by that point, so he took it.

Then, tending the bar, trying to fill an order, his body just couldn't do it. Something felt wrong and painful and he couldn't tell what, which only distressed him further. The glass? Was it the glass, heavy in his grip, but so uncomfortable out of it? Or maybe just his hands in general; that sounded right, as he found himself unwilling to uncurl his right fist. The hand was balled up, fingertips quickly tapping his palm over and over, but when he tried to move it, tried to open it up so he could fill the order, just fill the damn order, the thought of opening it and moving it felt more painful than glass in his skin, so he gave up and let his hand be. He could figure it out otherwise; he always did.

It all continued to snowball as Dennis grew more and more agitated. He'd take a brief escape, block out his ears and his eyes and rock himself, though that too eventually became a desperate thrashing as he couldn't calm down, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He didn't remember going to the back office, but he guessed he'd made a scene out in the bar and thus was herded back like a horse with a broken leg being taken behind the barn.

Dennis was in a chair, that much he could tell, what with his eyes still squeezed shut and his body still rocking and shaking violently. The fingers of one hand tapped and tapped, quickly, incessantly at his palm, in tune with the anxious beat of his foot on the wooden floor. He only realized he was making sounds, small grunts and whimpers, when he felt them in his throat, reverberating in his skull.

There was suddenly a warm hand on his shoulder, gentle, the touch light enough that it only slightly distressed him at first. He yanked his head forward, then remembered his eyes were closed, and Dennis gave up there because he knew if he opened them the sense of sight would throw his brain into a deeper frenzy. So he remained blinded, confused and out of touch, the only thing he could verify for sure being that he was sitting on a chair. For all he knew, nothing else in the world existed in that moment. 

He guessed his rocking had slowed down, or at least become less violent, because the hand on his shoulder became an arm around his back. Dennis leaned a little into the touch, as much as he could with his body moving like it did, and he felt more sounds escape his mouth - sobs, it seemed that time. He dutifully ignored it - ignored the sudden panic from imagining his makeup had smudged, that he needed desperately to fix it now, now, he had to or he'd be ruined and would only fall further into his distress, now without the safety net of the various products concealing and protecting his face. The more he thought, the more he felt like screaming, crying out until his throat went sore.

Something touched his cheek. Wiping. The tears? Fingers gently stroked his face, rubbed off the evidence of his meltdown, restored some feeling to his body. He slowed, letting out small whimpers as he did, the pressure on his ears slowly decreasing. He felt the weight of his hands dropping into his lap before he actually registered the movement, breathing in and out as he now let the sounds from the bar, the world, creep inside his ears, ready to strike. They didn’t, though. It was quiet, all things considered, the only noises in the room being that of the shoddy air conditioner, his own heavy breaths, and the calmer breathing of another beside him.

Dennis readied himself then, his desperate need to feel safe and in control practically begging his eyes to open, and so he did, slowly. He let out a small whimper as he regained his vision, but was calmed by the fact that the light in the back room was turned off. The darkness of the room put him at ease a bit, and he could feel some of the tension dripping out of his body - not all of it, not even close, but some. It was a step.

He turned his head, then, feeling that he knew all too well who had been comforting him, but still needing to verify anyway. Dennis’ bleary eyes met Mac’s, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Mac smiled at him, all gentle and caring and absolutely too good for Dennis. Something inside of him broke and he fell forward, collapsing into Mac’s chest, wrapping his arms so tightly around him like if he didn’t Mac would float away, never to be seen by him again. The gesture was returned, though, and the two held each other there, Dennis crying and quietly sobbing into Mac’s chest.

“Can I help?” Mac asked quietly, murmuring the question into Dennis’ hair. His voice was low and soft, just in the right intonation that he’d learned over time was okay for Dennis when everything else was too loud.

“Just…” Dennis choked out the word, finding it hard to speak. He wanted to, badly; he wanted to tell Mac just how to help him, how to hold him, tell him to take him to the car and drive them both home to stay, to tell him how everything hurt and overwhelmed him. But the words wouldn’t come out, not in the way he wanted, and were he not pressed against Mac he’d have banged his fists in frustration already.

But Mac understood it. He pressed a small kiss to the top of Dennis’ head, held him close. “It’s okay. You don’t gotta speak if you can’t do it right now. I’ll do yes or no, okay?”

He always hated when Mac had to resort to the yes or no questions. He hated it with a fierce intensity; it made him feel small and weak and absolutely nothing like the godlike being that he was. But gods don't freak out over little sounds and bumps, or lights that were just a bit too bright, and they didn't fuck up at their job just because their hand had to be a certain way, and they didn't cry in the back room, unable to speak.

“Hey, Den, come back to me,” came Mac’s voice, breaking him out of his self-loathing stupor and back into the present, in reality. He focused his eyes on the fabric of Mac’s shirt, staring intently at each small piece of lint, using it to make himself feel real. Dennis gave a tiny nod, just an acknowledgment that he was there and listening now.

Mac rubbed his back comfortingly and then began to ask. “Is it any better from earlier, Den?”

Dennis hesitated, because he wasn't totally sure, really. He was still a wreck, a crying, silent wreck, but everything was a little less intense and his brain didn't feel ready to launch itself out of his skull, so he nodded.

“Good, that's good, dude,” Mac cooed, still gently moving his hand up and down Dennis’ spine, the sensation calming, grounding. “Did anything happen, specifically? Anything fuck with you? Or is it just a bad day?”

Dennis frowned, buried his face further into Mac’s chest, then slowly shook his head, red hot shame lighting up his veins. Of course nothing had happened. Nothing had set him off. He had a meltdown without any reason to it because he was just that fucking mental.

“That's okay,” Mac said quickly, his words a juxtaposition to Dennis’ whirlwind thoughts. “That's okay, Den. Sometimes the world is just too much, y’know? So it's okay.”

He could feel himself crying again. Damn Mac. Damn his unrelenting compassion. Damn his stupid, calming words that did make him feel a little better, even though his stubborn brain didn't want to admit to the reality of what he said.

So he snuggled in closer to Mac, his arms tightening around him, and as long as Mac wouldn't bring up his flowing tears, he wouldn't either.

“You're doing great, Dennis, okay? You're good. Okay - do you need me to take you home?” Mac asked the one question that Dennis had both needed desperately and didn't want to hear. He did want to go home, where it was safe and quiet and didn't overwhelm him, where he was in control and where Mac was always right there. But then, it also felt like a defeat. Like going home was a retreat, a surrender, an admittance that he was flawed and broken and couldn't handle his own job.

Dennis wanted to be at home so, so badly, though.

With a bit of a tremor and a sigh, he nodded his head, hands tightening in the cloth of Mac’s shirt. Today, he would accept defeat. He would give up. The thought made him feel ill, but he knew going back out there just wasn't an option.

Mac kissed his head again, then carefully adjusted Dennis’ body so he was closer, and with a gentle movement lifted his head so he could press a kiss to Dennis’ temple. He continued like that, kissing Dennis’ pale, ruined face, ending with a small kiss to his lips before bringing his head back up as they were before. “I'm proud of you, Den. You're the strongest dude I know, seriously,” he murmured, and from the kisses to the praise Dennis felt a bit like he was on a cloud, high above the rest of the world and all of the things that hurt.

“Come on, baby, let's go home,” Mac spoke as he bent away from Dennis, and the lack of contact caused him a brief moment of panic before Mac hoisted him up into his arms, carrying him bridal-style. The momentary panic still held a grip on his heart, but he eased, wrapping his arms around Mac’s neck, allowing himself to be carried outside and into the Range Rover.

Mac gently let him down into the passenger seat, taking his place behind the wheel, and he kept aware of the possible bumpiness of the ride as they made their way home. He glanced over at Dennis often, scanning him over and ensuring his comfort. Though the car ride wasn't exactly stress-free for him, Dennis felt safe with Mac’s obsessive supervision. It was a welcome feeling.

Arriving home, Mac once again took the initiative in carrying Dennis out and up, inside the building, then into their apartment, finally letting Dennis down once they'd reached his bed.

“Do you need anything from me?” Mac asked, his eyes wide and caring, his body still hunched over the bed. Dennis hadn't quite regained his ability to speak just yet, but he didn't need to, not for this. He reached his arms out in Mac’s direction, urging him in, and Mac got the message. He smiled and slid into the bed next to Dennis, who immediately pressed against him and held him close.

A part of him still remained on edge, but in the moment, with his body enveloped by Mac’s, with the sounds of his slow, steady breathing and the feeling of his hands lazily roaming Dennis’ back, he felt at peace. The horrible stressors of the day felt far away now, almost unreal. He let out a dreamy sigh and let Mac’s slow touches calm him, drifting off into a peaceful sleep.


End file.
